Naturally One
by General Kitty Girl
Summary: March 1873, a grand gala is held to renew U.S./Canadian relations after the conclusions of the Alabama Claims and Fenian Raids. However, this is also Matthew's first chance to see his brother since the conclusion of the American Civil War - Gift for Kitak


**~Naturally One~**

Elegance. Poise. Refinement. Painted smiles and strategized laughter drowning the underlying stench of politics. Captured stars in the chandeliers above reflected like another sky on the polished floors, giving the fanciful beings gliding over it the illusion of celestial mastery. Everything was planned, every detail as far from coincidence as was the hidden truth of this entire gala. Friends were only such until parting over the threshold, but for the moments spent acting as such…peace was a dream birthed into temporary reality.

But like dreams, the alliances made here were just as fickle.

Matthew watched it all with somber detachment. Were it by the request of any other man but his Prime Minister, the first in his nation's history, he would not be standing in attendance at this magnificent living portrait of lies. Men and women from two nations were here tonight, pretending that there wasn't such a hostile state of tension between them – that their boarders were not being monitored by military hawks looking for a reason to lash out. So much distrust whirled like a maelstrom behind the closed doors of Parliament and Congress, each looking to the other and barely able to contain their snarls from across the table. The beautiful words written in flourishing penmanship on paper were dripping with far more than ink…distain as thick as tar was as clear to the trained eye as the delicate curls of every _P_ and _Q_.

Yet here they were. It was 1873 and they were all gathered here in feigned blissful ignorance with nothing but strained hands and friendship and compromise on their tongues. Hands, Matthew had found, always seemed more truthful than mouths.

The orchestra began reciting the cords to Johann Strauss's Viennese Waltz, as a trio of richly dressed young women, all flustered and giggling, approached Matthew before one boldly asked for a dance.

American women; the kind more widely known for their dereliction of courting etiquette.

The man politely smiled and bowed, declining her request before excusing himself. He didn't turn back to see her or her friends' reactions, as he headed as far from the ballroom of bejeweled politicians and socialites as he could.

For the past two hours, the Canadian had endured the sea of fake niceties, greeting guests and mingling as little as possible to keep up appearances and nothing more. He was cordial, polite, and always the professional representative he'd grown a reputation for being; but he wasn't so much here for the humans as he was for his other half…his twin who had yet to make his promised appearance. The personal telegram Prime Minister Macdonald had received from America's President Grant had said that he would be sending his nation's avatar as his agent, and beseeched his colleague to make the international transition as easy as possible. The solution had been to implore Matthew's cooperation at tonight's event, which seemed for naught as his brother never showed.

Matthew travelled the marble halls, letting his mind drift as the music faded into the background and then to silence. The château hosting the attempt at reassuring the renewed relations between the nations of North America was beautiful and traditional in its Old World design. Matthew cared little for the lavish living of high society, but the olden structure around him calmed his nerves. This place was familiar, in his blood and timeless to him. This was as much a part of his past as it was his present and future – forever tied to history, and the powers across the Atlantic that controlled it.

Unlike…

The sound of rhythmic tapping broke his train of thought, and Matthew raised his gaze to find a person standing on the balcony in the distance. The Canadian could only make out the outline of a figure casually hunched over the guardrail, dressed in a dress coat and trousers similar to his own, and keeping tempo with some unheard tune with his foot. Matthew only held still a moment longer before altering his destination-less course for the outdoor terrace.

Hands in his pockets, he approached silently and stopped a few paces behind the man at the railing. Given how chilly it was on this late March evening, Matthew was surprised to find him here at all.

"You always did march to the beat of your own drum." Matthew couldn't see the man's expression, but he had a feeling he was smiling. "How long have you been here?"

The man tilted his golden blond head and made a thoughtful sound. "I snuck in through the back entrance with the service attendants in time to steal a suit, see the sunset from the back gardens, and then decide I wanted a better view," he replied, and then looked over his shoulder, amused sky-blue eyes meeting violet. "Now, depending upon how much of that you believe, you may or may not have your answer."

Matthew sighed and his shoulders sagged in weariness. "The first part I buy, but I don't think you've been here long enough to enjoy the wonders of freezing your ass off for a Canadian sunset."

Alfred tossed his head back and laughed, pushing himself up as he put a hand on his hip while the other braced his body against the rail. "You always were impossible to pull one over on…which is why I'm surprised you're here at all. You know this entire thing is full of more bullshit than a Nebraska stable."

"That may be," the Canadian replied, and furrowed his brows a tad. "But responsibilities cannot be ignored, even for something as frivolous as this."

Alfred hummed in mock understanding, turning to mimic Matthew's pose with the exception of leaning back against the guardrail. Matthew knew it had to be cold, but Alfred showed no evidence of minding it or changing his seemingly locked expression. There was an uncharacteristic stiffness to Alfred; worse still was thick cynicism that seemed to exude from his every word and movement. He was thinner, paler, and weaker, almost sickly if Matthew had to describe it. His normally sunny smile was tainted with overcast, which coupled with his once-bright eyes, now eclipsed with the gales of a dreaded Northeastern. He wasn't the same whole and carefree Alfred Matthew knew before 1861…

It hurt to see.

"…I'd ask how you're doing…"

Alfred smirked. "But that answer's pretty obvious to someone like you, isn't it?"

Matthew looked away and gathered his thoughts as Alfred's bitter chuckle splintered something inside of him. He had always needed to be cautious when dealing with other international powers, but Alfred was still unstable from the war that had practically ripped his mind in two. Matthew hadn't turned a blind eye to those nearly five years of bloodshed in his neighboring land, nor had he turned a blind eye to what was more than likely happening to his brother as a result. He hadn't seen the fallouts of it until now…though it was hardly from a lack of trying.

His attempts to travel to Washington for the sake of his twin had been denied time and time again, and by the time he had resorted to threatening to go on his own if not granted the request, Alfred had already left Washington and vanished. To where …no one had known.

Slowly, Matthew closed the distance between them and took note of how Alfred's eyes never left him, and how the American's body became ridged when he stepped beside him.

"Did you get my letters?" He asked conversationally.

Though his expression of pleasantness was forced, Alfred was unnaturally still and seemed to forget how to blink, remaining visibly on guard. "Yes; a few years late, but when I eventually returned to D.C. they were bundled up for me."

"Mm…did you read them?"

There was that dark laugh again, and Alfred finally looked away, turning vicious eyes above that deceiving smile towards the ground. "Sorry, Mattie, I haven't been too inclined to be opening gifts from the international community these days," he replied, sounding as though he had done that already, and the experience hadn't been pleasant.

Matthew felt a terrible sting at that and silently looked out over the carefully sculpted grounds below their vantage point. Eventually, it seemed the point had been made as Matthew heard a dejected sigh and Alfred mutter an apology. Not being one to lie, even for the selfless reason of boosting another's moral, Matthew tightened his grip on the rail and felt heat stirring within him.

"I may be Canada, but I wrote those letters as your brother," he began, and could see Alfred's shame easily in his mind without needing to look at the other. "I was worried about you…I still am."

Alfred was quiet for a while, as he seemed to be contemplating that, and Matthew felt that they had come to a standstill. He could sense that Alfred wasn't completely sound of mind enough yet to understand what he was saying, nor adequately healed enough to accept it. America had withdrawn from the world as an isolationist after its last war, and even more so after its civil struggle. The United States only seemed to become a player on the world stage when provoked or there was a claim to dispute. In this case, the _Alabama Claims_ and Fenian conflict had only just come to an end. At first, America had been completely unreasonable, asking for damages that amounted to incredible sums or, the alternative…the annexation of Canada. The litigation had drawn out for longer than the pro-annexation parties had been able to stave off the greater majority who, to Matthew and much of Canada's relief, were less interested in gaining more territory than they were rebuilding what they already had. Though many in his own government still protested that Canada's interests had been sacrificed by Great Britain for better relations with the U.S., the same could be said on the other side of the line who didn't feel Great Britain had paid enough for its interference in prolonging its Civil War.

Yet, through it all, Alfred had seemed a non-existent part of the equation. Matthew doubted he had ever been made aware of what was happening between the three international parties while he'd been on self-exile from his capital. Therefore…Matthew couldn't put blame on his brother for what happened. Alfred had personally made it very clear after the war of 1812 that he sought no more northern expansion; his eyes were on the west.

But like most things, the eyes of a nation's avatar didn't always foretell where his government was looking.

The sharp sound of drunken laughter below pierced the air and both avatars looked down to see a couple staggering into the garden from inside. Both were young and giggling like childish fools, hanging off of each other and acting well beneath the caliber needed for the occasion here. Neither brother looked happy as they watched the display, and it was Alfred who snorted and turned away first with his back to the scene.

"Arthur used to accuse me of loving humans too much, but these days I find myself selective in the kind I love. Politicians and snobs can all go to hell."

The deep growl of Alfred's voice and the horrible bite to his every word made the American even more of a stranger, and Matthew's grip on the railing tightened again. Though the Canadian's expression was controlled once more, the tautness of his body and the edges of his eyes were impossible to ignore. The Alfred he knew…the one needed in this world was slipping away. Things like what was happening below used to inspire eye rolls and jokes, even mocking commentary that would have even Matthew hard-pressed not to let loose a laugh. The intense hatred now…it just wasn't Alfred.

He would never forget the first time he had met Alfred – the idealistic, frightened, but hopeful young man committed to seeing through positive change at the cost of risking the only life he'd ever known. Foolish, optimistic, yet genuine in every way – this was the Alfred F. Jones he knew, and politics aside he had a responsibility as a brother that he honestly held dear.

He didn't often get to…but tonight, he was going to be Alfred's brother before his international neighbor.

"You look hungry."

The suddenness of the remark made the American blink, and for a moment the darkness lifted as a very bewildered Alfred looked back at Matthew. "What?"

"Alfred, don't take this the wrong way, but you look like you've lost an unhealthy amount of weight. I can understand why under the circumstances, but considering you're more my brother than my guest, it's most unsettling to see you so thin," Matthew commented, looking most serious as he stood up to his full height and slid his hands into his pockets. "I insist on correcting this error."

Alfred frowned at that and looked as though the Canadian might be short a few marbles. "Matthew, I haven't really had much of an appetite in a few years, tonight included. Besides, there's a reason I snuck in so as not to have to deal with the party; I don't want anything to do with it."

"Well, then that makes two of us," Matthew added frankly, raising his eyebrows and looking studious as Alfred only looked more annoyed…and wary of what madness had suddenly overcome his brother. "Were it not for my boss and an incredible work ethic –if I do say so, myself– I would be at home this very moment, preparing for myself what I intend to prepare for you."

"You're hilarious," Alfred replied, in an unimpressed drawl. "What, you intend to spirit me away to your house?"

Matthew simply shook his head. "Not at all. Simply, to the kitchen," he announced, and before Alfred could protest further, Matthew truly surprised his brother when he wrapped an arm around him, clasping him on the shoulder, and began dragging him back inside. "Come now, Alfred – you can't tell me you've never raided a kitchen before."

* * *

><p>All of the dinner courses had already been served to the guests, and soon only a barebones crew of servants was left behind to tidy the kitchen, while the bulk were in the dining rooms, on the floors, and in the private areas cleaning up. For the few in the area Matthew and Alfred needed most, Matthew decided to use his powers of persuasion to secure the quickest and quietest cooperation of the staff.<p>

When he wanted to be, Matthew could be the most charming and most impossible man to deny. His charisma often stunned people when he let it show, and between his fluency in English and French, it was difficult for people to turn him down in either language. So when Matthew politely asked the staff to take the rest of the evening off, there were few protests and none he couldn't solve.

With the kitchen all to themselves, Matthew set to work preparing the gas stove and grabbing a pie dish from off one of the counters.

"So," Alfred began, looking around again to make sure no one was in the surprisingly large kitchen, before looking back to his twin. "What exactly are you planning on making?"

Matthew smiled and set to work with a few bowls, adding flour, salt, oil, and other things Alfred was having trouble identifying for all the French labeling. "Have a little faith. Trust me that you'll like it."

"Well, it's not that I doubt you or anything," Alfred returned, a bit defensively as he nervously wandered the kitchen, eyeing how fancy it was; and it _was_ fancy. "I'm just curious, ya know. I'm not into super elaborate foods, Mattie, and for all I know you cook like Francis."

Matthew smirked in amusement, and shrugged as he began working the dough in the bowl. "Very well, my brother, I swear to only make you a meal fit for a true tavern-goer. Well…perhaps a French, tavern-goer."

Alfred rolled his eyes and went back to exploring. He had to say…he was impressed. Only the wealthiest establishments had things like gas stoves, and the utensils and dishware looked to be excellent quality – not wood or cheap aluminum, anyway. There were standing chests that felt cool to the touch, and when opened, Alfred found ice and snow tightly packed in all the corners with meats buried amongst it (the cuts he guessed they hadn't used for the dinner). He also found things like exotic fruits – well, exotic to Canada, anyway. He found small cashes of frozen strawberries, raspberries, plums and even oranges. There were things like lemons and peaches too, likely used for flavoring and garnishes in everything from dinner to desert, and Alfred found himself smiling and stealing a peach as Matthew began rolling out dough on the counter.

Of course, biting into the frigid fruit proved to be an incredibly bad idea and hurt tremendously.

"I don't know how the hell you stand it up here," Alfred muttered, rubbing his sore jaw and tossing the peach back into its pile. "Everything freaking freezes – even the damn peaches."

"You get used to it," Matthew replied, used to the complaints about his chilly climate and the techniques used to preserve food in it. He remained more focused on the unused ground meats he'd found in the ice chest to fill his pie, and smiled a little. "The springs and summers aren't bad, and even in the other seasons there's much to appreciate. To be honest, I find no mistakes in the nature of my land or what we do to survive in it. It simply is as it is meant to be."

Alfred stopped at that and turned towards Matthew, who had his back to him as he placed his pie into the oven. The Canadian busied himself with the task of cleaning up after himself, and Alfred watched him with a strangely thoughtful expression.

It was well known that Matthew was the original son of Francis. While Arthur had taken him in as a child, the French avatar had gone north and won the favor and custody of the brother he had never known. Growing up, Arthur used to tell him all kinds of stories about Francis and his pompously aristocratic ways, and the few French people he met seemed to correspond with that image. When he had learned of Matthew, he had assumed his twin would have grown up to be much like the man who'd raised him…and while it never dampened his desire to meet his brother, it did make him somewhat wary. He couldn't have been more surprised after having finally met Matthew just before his War of Independence – how simply he dressed, how smart and levelheaded he was, how politically savvy and self-reliant. When things had calmed down after the Revolution and the War of 1812, he had taken more time to notice and appreciate just how…well, normal Matthew was.

He wasn't a pompous politician or a snob. Seeing him performing such domestic tasks and being so humble was just…it was nice; it made the American smile, and he felt relaxed for the first time since being summoned to Washington and sent here to Canada by his president.

Alfred had come here with nothing but loathing and fear for the political nature of his trip, but it seemed he hadn't been the only one dreading just trying to survive by being forced to perpetuate an illusion. The honesty of that…and seeing Matthew wanting to be as true to his own nature as Alfred desperately wanted to be to his, was refreshing. For the first time in a long time…he didn't feel so alone.

Alfred's eyes travelled back to the peach he'd returned to the basket, and then to the slightly ajar pantry door at the far end of the kitchen. An idea came to him, and he walked over to the open cupboard and found just what he had thought he'd find: preserved materials. These days it was all the rage to can and jar everything from meats, to breads, to vegetables and fruits; and after a quick sorting he found the peaches that had been thawed and jarred after their long transport to the north, and took them back to Matthew's workspace.

The Canadian was about to put his mixing bowl up when Alfred snatched it away and surprised the man. He made a sound of protest, but was stopped short as he was caught up in watching Alfred open and close all the remaining containers on the counter, looking for things. He managed to find precious cinnamon and sugar, but frowned to find the ampoule of vanilla beans empty (those were very expensive and had likely all been used up for the highly polarized event), but eventually shrugged and crossed the kitchen to the liquor cabinet. Now Matthew was _really_ worried.

If Alfred was concerned Matthew cooked like Francis, then Matthew was very concerned Alfred drank like Arthur.

"Alfred, what are you doing?" Matthew inquired hesitantly, watching as Alfred eyed a bottle of rum, sniffed it, and then decided it was good before returning to dump nearly a third of it into the bowl.

Needless to say, Matthew was _very_ worried now. But Alfred only smiled, capped the bottle and winked. "Have a little faith. Trust me that you'll like it."

His worry not ebbing in the least, Matthew eyed the bowl. "If you don't get me totally plastered first."

Alfred just laughed, and this time it was a real laugh…Alfred's laugh, and it was infectious. Matthew smiled in turn and felt a weight lifting from his shoulders as Alfred continued to roll with sidesplitting laughter. Apparently the mental image of his twin in a "plastered" state of drunkenness was too much for Alfred to handle, and Matthew joined him in enjoying the hilarity of it all.

After a good several minutes the two finally began to taper off and wipe the tears from their eyes. Matthew nearly forgot about his pie and rushed to check on it before he "pulled an Arthur", which sent Alfred into another laughing fit, and then had him assuring Matthew that he hadn't added enough gravy for a British palate, so he'd be safe. As Matthew waited for his Canadian meat pie to finish, Alfred forwent the modern stove for the traditional fireplace on the opposite side, where he waited for his mixture of canned peaches, rum, butter, cinnamon and sugar to cook in the skillet placed over the fire. The smells from the dinner and dessert were divine, and the stories the pair had to share in the meantime only further enhanced the warm atmosphere.

Matthew told Alfred amusing stories about some of his earlier days learning how to cook, and some of his first encounters with "Lord Kirkland's cuisine", while Alfred preferred to talk more about what he'd learn to cook on his recent travels around his country. Despite its isolationist policies there was such a great conglomeration of cultures from all over the world in America right now, and so many different flavors and recipes had come with them. Matthew enjoyed hearing how enthusiastically Alfred spoke about his first experiences with things like Chinese, Thai and Mexican food; how he'd tried something in Louisiana that seemed to have grown up on its own there that the people called Cajun, and how Hispanic food was growing in popularity throughout the southeast.

Hearing that Alfred preferred to eat among his people, like his people, and to learn how to make their dishes from them made Matthew as happy as the reverse had made Alfred. Matthew had met several of the European avatars and had even hosted a number of them in his own country as guests. For the most part, they were treated like the upper class because they expected it. While Arthur was normally the exception, avatars of the empires and older nations took their titles and all the trappings very seriously – living and breathing their roles in the finest manners. But personally, he'd never been comfortable with that, and neither had Alfred. The two of them were so different from the rest of the world, and knowing that they shared just this one view in common gave both of them some much needed kinship.

Though their different points of view and conflicts had divided them multiple times throughout history, and even their government now…they were still brothers, and a feeling like this only strengthened that bond.

Sooner than their conversations were ready for, both dishes were done, plated, and sitting side by side on the counter…reminding both young men how long it had been since either of them had eaten.

Both of their stomachs growled, and the fits of laughter started again as Matthew served up his Canadian dinner, followed by Alfred dishing out his American dessert.

* * *

><p>"My next trip to Texas, I'm sending you a cowboy hat."<p>

A spoonful of the delectable peach dish occupied the Canadian's mouth for a moment, nearly choking him as he tried to laugh in mid-swallow, and then playfully scoffed at the deviously snickering American. "Alfred, don't be ridiculous, where on earth would I have a need for a hat like that here? And I think Arthur would have an absolute heart attack to you sitting on the counter like that: counters are for glasses, not arses," he said, cheekily reciting the infamous quote in his most serious British accent.

As a resounding tribute, Alfred held his head high and defiantly rubbed his rear back and forth on the counter surface in mock rebellion. "And ship harbors aren't for brewing tea, but I went against the grain on that one too, didn't I?"

Matthew took another mouthful of dessert to hide his amusement at that and tried to keep the lighthearted spirit of the moment going. Truthfully, he had deep reasons to hate Arthur…deeper and darker ones than even Alfred knew, but he still found it difficult to speak ill of the man as candidly as Alfred seemed to. The man and the nation he represented were still his sovereigns, and though they weren't on the best of terms at the moment…he still respected both, though knew that wasn't a debate to bring up at the moment.

He knew that was a heart-to-heart for another time.

"Hey, Mattie?"

Matthew looked up from his dish, not realizing he had lost himself to his thoughts and that silence that had stretched between them. Alfred was now leaning back against the top shelves above the counter where he sat, his legs dangling over the edge; hands in his lap, and a softer, kinder smile lit his face. He still looked worn and ill from the aftermath of his civil war, still exhausted from the effort it took to rebuild after so many years of being literally ripped apart; but the hatred in his face, those alien eyes and presence seemed lifted. However temporary this was, Matthew was grateful for it and felt nothing but the joy brought from seeing an old friend again…

"Thanks…for being here and doing all of this," he began, and his gaze drifted down to the floor, his expression falling before he found his words again. "I've met and befriended a lot of wonderful people in my travels, but…it hurts to know how short-lived those friendships will be, and how during that time…they'll never know the truth of me…"

He swallowed, and finally met his brother's eyes again before his smile slowly returned. "It's nice to know there's at least someone in this world who does last, and knows me better than I know myself."

Matthew was unable to speak for a moment; bowing his head, he closed his eyes and took a breath before feeling the right words come to him…and he looked back to Alfred with an expression of sincerity and humility. " 'Let us not love in word or speech, but in deed and in truth'," he began, and smiled a little when Alfred's eyes widened a little in recognition. "Since our beginning, we have been more enemies than friends, but Alfred…we have always and always will be brothers."

It took some time, but when the profound expression of amazement melted into warm affection Alfred smiled even brighter than before – truly touched and Matthew knew tonight had all been worth it. The Canadian smiled in return, and knew his brother had finally let the sincerity of his twin's care through the barriers he'd erected over the past several years. Matthew had succeeded in one night what Alfred's close to seven years of running away from Washington had tried to accomplish. Alfred's recovering nation would heal him, his people's determined spirit and resolve would rejuvenate his soul, but only one of his own kind could rekindle his ability to trust and cure his loneliness.

Alfred didn't know what to say, and to Matthew, that said everything.

The sound of a door flying open broke the moment, and both brothers blinked and turned to see a portly man in white, hairless but for his ebony mustache that curled around the edges, and with brown eyes as wide as saucers staring back at them. All was silent and no one moved for a few breathless minutes, but eventually, Alfred raised a hand and waved.

"Um…howdy?"

* * *

><p>Alfred looked like a bump on a log, watching Matthew and quite possibly the fattest Frenchman the American had ever seen, argue back and forth in the fastest and most fluid French he'd ever had the displeasure of bearing witness to. Even during the Revolution, Francis and his commanders had been kind enough to keep to English most of the time, or at least get a translator; but this – ! Were they talking about dinner or the price of monkeys in Africa?<p>

And what was with all the crazy hand gesturing? Arg!

Alfred wanted to help, he truly did; but whenever he tried to get a word in edgewise he was either drowned out by the irate head chef (who was apparently furious about "invaders" in his kitchen), or Matthew, begging his brother to let him handle this as he returned to trying to negotiate. To be frank, Alfred was getting really annoyed.

He began a mental timer, and gave Matthew ten more seconds to deal with this before he just knocked this guy's block off.

Something was passed between the chef and Matthew, and the Canadian gave a tight smile and gently made a motion to try and direct the chef's attention away from Alfred. The American glared, and suddenly he had a wild and incensed Frenchman all over him, yelling about pigeons, a possible harp about the Star-Spangled Banner, and he could have sworn the guy was demanding his maiden name. Though he really didn't like this guy getting in his face like this, the pleading look from Matthew not to lose his temper made him frown and try to be a nice guy. He guessed since the guy was asking for his maiden name, and he didn't have one (he wasn't a woman), he tried to remember how to say, "_Howdy, my name is_…" in French.

"_John maple __Pierre_…uh, Alfred…_Como tally voo_?"

In the silence that followed, Alfred went from right ticked to a little nervous as both the chef and Matthew's eyes seemed to bug out of their heads an inch or two, both of them staring at him with unhinged jaws. Alfred briefly stopped his constantly shifting gaze on Matthew, giving him a wide-eyed plea for assistance before grunting in exasperation and glaring at the chef.

Okay, so maybe his French was a little rusty, but for Cripe's sake, it couldn't have been _that_ bad.

Whatever words he'd been preparing to lay on the rude Frenchman were useless, as the man hit the deck hard, dropping on the spot at his feet.

Well…Alfred hadn't quite been expecting that.

Matthew snapped out of his flabbergasted shock and said something rapidly in French – then Alfred jumped and started adding his own exclamations in English, "Oh my God, my French killed him!"

Hastening to the downed man, Matthew quickly checked for a pulse and nearly fell back on his rump in relief. "No, thank the Lord. He's only passed out."

Despite the good news Alfred still looked panicked and was sweating bullets. "Holy Christ! Imagine if I'd have gone back to my Boss and had to explain murder by bad French in a Canadian kitchen; I'd have caused an international incident! By God, how would I live that one down?"

The thought seemed to strike Matthew as well, and as one they looked at one another with pale, shocked faces…

And then burst into tears laughing.

* * *

><p>By the time the two finished cleaning away the evidence of their mischief, and jointly carrying the plump and unresponsive chef to another room to sleep off his Alfred-induced-coma, and Matthew managed to see Alfred back to a coach bound for the nearest rail line back for the States…both young men found themselves in better moods and spirits than they had been in a very long time.<p>

Standing alone beside the road Alfred had finally disappeared down, Matthew took in a deep breath of the chilled pre-dawn air and looked off towards the east where the sun was beginning to rise. The night of political dancing was over, but the boarders were still tense, the leaders of their governments still suspicious, and the closed-toothed promises were still being tested for falsehood. Yet for Canada as it was in America, it was simply a new day in March, 1873; the citizens of both nations would still wake and work to survive another year, still trade their resources and new technologies with one another, and still look to the future with as much uncertainty as they did hope. As more of the sun's warmth began to gradually envelop the land around him, he thought about it warming his brother's lands to the south at the same time.

It was simply as it was meant to be.

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author<em>:

This is a gift fic written for and with full dedication to KitakLaw, as both a birthday gift and a thank you for being a most wonderful friend and my Canadian Consultant. It's been more than a year of beautiful friendship and I cannot thank her enough for all of it. :) The idea for this fic was inspired by the sequel to her Colonial North American Bros short ("Mudslinging"), called "Through His Stomach" (I highly recommend both fics if you love the North American bros as much as I do~). The concept of the brothers bonding over food and cooking was extremely adorable, and as people who share the opinion that Mattie and Al REALLY do know how to cook, it'd be a shame not to put their skills to good use.

I hope I've done this concept justice; and again, my sincerest and best wishes tp KitakLaw! Happy birthday, my dear!

On to the Notes!

-Sir John A. Macdonald was the first Prime Minister of Canada at the same time Ulysses S. Great was President of the United States. The event described here (which this ball, while fictional, is an example of some of the things politicians during this period would do to improve relations) was approximately 8 years post the Civil War, and just after the _Alabama Claims_ (see "Forgive Me, One Day" fic for details) as well as the Fenian Raids (see second note) that put extreme pressures on U.S./Canadian relations.

-The Fenian Raids were a collection of raids conducted by the Fenian Brotherhood, a resistance organization based both in Ireland and North America that was dedicated to the liberation of Northern Ireland from British control. While the raids ultimately ended unsuccessfully, the Fenians and British-Canadian troops clashed as Fenians tried to pressure Britain into releasing Northern Ireland raiding British points of interest in Canada. The U.S. response to these attacks was sadly slow and inconsistent; this in turn enraged many in Canada who saw the American lag in providing assistance in subduing the Fenians as a retaliatory statement against Great Britain for aiding the Confederacy during the Civil War. Coupled with the relatively generous Irish population in America and high public anti-British sentiments in America at the time, it's little wonder for the Canadian viewpoint and hard to argue the legitimacy of it. In the end, while it took much longer than anticipated, the U.S. and Canada were able end the raids and arrest many involved. Still, this left a terrible stain on the U.S./Canadian relationship, even more so than the one it left with Britain. ):

-1861 was the year the War Between the States/American Civil War began. (This is in reference to Matthew's comment up there~ ^^; )

-Okay, I spent MORE time looking up "19th century kitchens and recipes" for this fic than anything else (and considering I cook about as well as canon!Arthur in real life, this was an incredible challenge to write any sort of cooking scene). While sifting through all of the wonderful recipes of 19th century Canada – time and time again I came across this really awesome looking meat pie called Tourtiere. It's a pretty much "no holds bar" pie in that you can put practically anything in it (from beef, to veal, to seafood) and eat it anywhere (upper-class homes to downtown pubs), but it's a popular item enjoyed during the winter months, especially in Quebec, where it originated from. Matthew's version here has beef, likely the standard root vegetables and some seasonings (hey, he IS the son of Francis, here~), but either way my head-canon has Matthew as a darn good chef…even if he's just making "simple tavern food" XD. Alfred's dish here is actually really popular in the southern U.S. especially, and normally topped with ice cream (sadly, the boys don't have any as ice cream then had to be made fresh and served really quickly 9 times out of 10, and takes a really long time to make; trust me, I've done it). Its basically sliced peaches cooked in a skillet filled with butter, brown or white sugar (depends on what'cha got), a little vanilla (some chefts get fancy and add some nutmeg too), cinnamon and a generous amount of rum. The idea was to cook the mixture until the sugar caramelized and there was a smooth and creamy sauce basically boiling the peaches; then ya plate it and put vanilla ice cream on top and serve! I have seen this dish in many restaurants throughout the south and know it to be a really classic dessert~ :) Its fast, easy, and besides being pretty fast to make I think it would have complimented the Tourtiere very well~

****Crap, I just realized the boys have no vegetables! DX **_**Arthur, please don't kill me for feeding them rum peaches instead**_**!****

-'_Let us not love in word or speech, but in deed and in truth_' – 1 John 3:18.

-Alfred Speak: "_John maple __Pierre_…uh, Alfred…_Como tally voo_?" = French: "_Je m'appelle Alfred_. _Comment allez-vous_? = English: "I am Alfred. How are you?" (As a side note, I totally credit my love of "Inglorious Bastards" and Lt. Aldo Raine for aiding in the creation of Alfred Speak. Dear God…Aldo Raine…XD)

I hope you all enjoyed the fic! ^_^ Thank you for reading, and all my best!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


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